


incursion

by deadlybride



Series: kink bingo fills [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Demonic Possession, Episode: s09e02 Devil May Care, F/M, Hell Trauma, Other, Violent Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2018-05-31
Packaged: 2019-05-16 13:59:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14812701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: Abaddon doesn't see a reason to hesitate. The strong don't make deals; they take.





	incursion

**Author's Note:**

> written for the 2018 SPNKinkBingo, filling the 'Abaddon/Dean' square.

It's a hot day, humid, and this ridiculous human's all warm and sticky-clammy against her sheath of skin. He's staring up at her, trapped and still, and she says, "I've loved this body from the moment I saw it," and it's true, a true thing, but she says it for the way his pulse thuds under her fingers. It's so easy to tell the truth, especially when it hurts.

Dean grimaces, muscles tensing on and off under her so-much-stronger hands. She smiles at him, wide and pretty like she knows this body can smile, and watches his eyelids flicker. Male bravado, easy to exploit. He's afraid of her, though not as much as he could be. Experienced, this one. She's almost impressed. Dean says, smiling flat-eyed at her, "It's a horror show up there," his wrist creaking under her grip, and she tilts her head and says, "It's like you think you have a choice, pretty boy," and he blinks at her all confused, and this is the best part, the absolute best thing. She pets down his face, sweat and stubble, the racing stubborn heart in his throat, the bob as he swallows, and she watches his eyes go wide and desperate when she sinks her nails into his chest and drags, blood surging up and spilling.

"No," Dean pants out, clutching with desperate weak hands at her wrist, " _no_ , you bitch, stop—" with his back arching under the pain, body lifting unconsciously up toward hers like a show of pleading would ever, ever make suffering end.

She smiles wider, leans down and holds his eyes, and under her fingers she can actually feel the moment when the band of warding magic looped in ink around his little soul pops, snapping like so much frail bone. "Uh-oh," she whispers, her hair falling forward to frame his face, his head wrenched back so far that his neck might break. What a waste that would be. She drops the hold on his wrist and he flails at her, pointlessly, punching her in the gut as though that could ever harm her, and she absorbs the blow and runs her thumb under the damp pretty curve of his bottom lip and blows into him, looking right into his eyes as long as she can to see the horrified wide stretch, tasting the first curling edges of revulsion as smoke fills him up and for a delightful instant she can see through both bodies, can watch him shudder full of her and see the pretty grin on her own face—and then she snaps in and the gorgeous sheath of poor dead Josie falls empty to the ground and she sighs, shrugs and settles into this beautiful hilt, blood streaming down her chest and the last shreds of warding magic stinging against the edges of her.

"Now," she says, voice all deep and growling, "that's better, isn't it," and discovers that Dean bit the inside of his own mouth raw trying not to show pain. She licks the inside of the new cheek, silky where it doesn't hurt, and slides the tongue over the bottom lip, smears the blood, drags teeth over it.

 _Oh, Dean,_ the smoke of her pulses into him, where he's shuddering trapped and small under all her dark, _this is going to be so much fun_. She stands up on longer legs and runs her new hand over her hair, feels the shorn velvet of the buzz at the back of his head—the ache in his knees, the broad span of shoulders, the heartburn, the sweat making his shirt cling to his skin, all the distractions and delightful meaty disgust of a living breathing body—and then there's a white flash that makes her flinch, even in this secured skin. Grace, somewhere close, an _angel_ —and she's murdered angels but this wasn't the plan, not at all. Inside of her Dean's soul leaps in hope, straining toward that awful light. "We're going to have to talk about your friends, sweetheart," she says, and again there's a ripple as grace pulses through the atmosphere, and she growls in frustration and blinks away, rushing through the spaces between the air to arrive in the abandoned house she's been operating in, the world snapping from humid day to cool night in less than an instant, sweat already starting to dry on her new skin.

Her guards leap to their feet, pointlessly, and then waver when they recognize her. "The Winchesters have an angel on call," she says, and flicks her fingers at them. "Get out, find me some good news."

They scatter. She examines the outstretched hand, with its broader knuckles, the smears of blood on fair freckled skin. Under that skin Dean's fighting, clawing fruitlessly against the heavy weight of her like a man buried alive breaking his nails on grave-dirt, and she smiles. Time to have some fun.

The master bedroom in the house reeks of something dead, dust and cobwebs piled in the corners. The smell's clearer through living nostrils. The built-in closet has a mirrored door, cracked but functional, and she stands in front of it, turning her head back and forth. "This really is a stunning suit," she says, in that throaty voice, and hums appreciatively. She should've shredded Josie's vocal chords a few times, like he's clearly done—it sounds so impressive. She pulls off Dean's jacket and drops it onto the naked iron framed bed behind her, then watches in the mirror while she drags blunt fingers over the cracked and still-bleeding remains of the tattoo. It sings with the agony, the nerves screeching under the skin. She gathers it up and sends it down into Dean, ready to start his questioning off with a bang, and Dean—

"Oh," she says, and steps closer to the mirror. Green eyes, watering and red with pain, and she lets him swim to the surface enough to look out. He's furious, but he's not hurt. "Oh, sweetheart. Someone did a number on you, didn't they."

The roiling seethe of his soul goes so deep red with fury that her borrowed stomach hurts, and she presses a hand to the mirror, leans in close. "Cat got your tongue?" she says, smiling, and then gives him enough control that she watches his face contort into a sneer and through their shared throat he says, "Sorry, guess I don't break that easy," and she shoves him back down and licks his lips and says, "Is that right," and then turns inward, gathers up all her thick and choking particles and pins his sorry excuse for a soul into the pit of them and winds round, and round, piercing through every part and looking _in_ and she sees:

_he's so angry he could actually fucking kill something and he wants to, he wants to take this bitch of a so-called knight and—Sam, where's Sam, if Zeke's done something he needs to—where's the girl—Sammy—he's never ever going to give her anything, who does she think she is—_

and then deeper, darker, sinking down— _Crowley_ , there, chained and pathetic just like she always knew he was, and Dean and his brother walk through hallways and the idiot Letters symbol is carved into walls and doors and on the key Dean flips in his hand while he makes some joke that Sam pretends not to smile at, but where—

She's jolted up to the surface, her eyes flying open. She can see the bunker, knows it, the curve of memory foam under their back and the pressure of the shower, Sam's hair clogging the drains, but she can't— _Sam flicks through a notebook, his dorkiest expression on his face, and he explains about the warding inside the walls that stops anything bad getting in, acting like this is the coolest thing he's ever seen, and it's just a real good thing that Dean loves him because, otherwise—_

"Those clever little shits," she says, almost admiring. Not clever enough not to be summarily executed, of course, but for the wards to reach even inside a legacy's mind so an enemy can know it but cannot find it, that's something special. She looks again into Dean's eyes. "So, I can't tear it out of you. That means you get to tell me."

The daze of inquisition rings hollow through his soul and he isn't fighting, isn't clawing back, but there's—something. Knowledge, somewhere deep. He thinks she's not going to win. She cocks their head, shuffles back to sit on the bed, the iron springs creaking under his weight, and pushes their fingers back into mess where the tattoo was, digging in harder to the slippery wet between skin and muscle. It makes the body quiver, trying frantically to get away from itself, and she holds it trammeled in place and curves all of it into him and sinks down and sees, now: _the frantic pulsing scramble to save Sam, it didn't matter how—_ and before, _grey woods full of fear and the joy of hunting through them, of winning, cleaving through like a knife—_ and before, _Lucifer smiling with Sam's face like every nightmare he's ever had and swallowing, pushing down the revulsion and saying, Sammy_ —and before, and before, and she sinks down and down and down through this life, searching, spreading him apart on the rack of himself, until she finds it.

 _Alastair, white eyes gleaming and affectionate in the wet black flicker of hell's pits. His hand slips almost kindly over theirs and they pick up the razor, flicking it open like they've been holding one all their lives, and Alastair whispers in their ear: come now, my boy, make me proud—and it'll be so easy, they know it. They’ve been waiting thirty years. Alastair slides a hand down their back and pushes them toward the rack and they flip the razor around in their hand and open their eyes and see the twisting frantic plea of a fresh soul and they lean down and set the blade in and cut_ and oh, oh, the Righteous Man, she opens their eyes and laughs out loud, delighted, because, "Sweetheart, you're _famous_ ," she says, grinning at him in the mirror, because who the fuck cares if this is going to be a hundred times as hard as it should be. It's going to be _fun_.

She snaps their fingers and one of the nameless demons in her army appears, eyes widening when it sees her vessel. "Is your body alive?" she says, and it nods, bewildered, and she grins and says, "Good, get out," and it cocks its head but obediently boils out into the open air, and the girl left behind collapses immediately, in a dead faint.

It's the work of a minute to get the girl strung up on the bed, hands tied tight above her head and her ankles secured to the footboard, spread wide. Dean's railing again, surging and furious, and there's an edge of panic there, at last. She shrugs off the flannel overshirt and stands in front of the mirror again, looking over their body. "Who would've thought," she says, admiring. "Lilith's plan, come to fruition, all because of little old you."

She remembers. Eons of strategizing, of moving pieces with painful slowness. Cain always refusing to participate and so it was she with the rest of the knights who'd picked up the slack. Infuriating, in a way, to miss all of the fun of the actual apocalypse, though to find out it was all for nothing lessens the sting a little. He almost deserves a reward. She runs bloody fingers up under the hem of the black undershirt, memory and stolen knowledge tingling together, and feels Dean's pinned-down soul cringe from it. Funny, how simple it is. "You'd think, having had the privilege of learning under Alastair," she says to him, slipping his fingers up and up to tweak his nipple, "you'd have learned to hide what bothered you."

His memories, blood-full and aching, fierce with pain and pleasure both: they're hers now, too, to pluck from as she wills. She drags him up from the pit to lay right underneath her control, imprisoned in his own skin, and watches his face while she drags their thumb harder and harder over his nipple, so it aches, the skin burning. Pain's nothing, not really. There are so many tortures and so much time to explore them, and hell's special brand of pain is something else entirely but it's not the only tool they have. She remembers, back from her own turning: how to find the limit of endurance and fall so far over it there was never any way to come back.

Dean's gun, his blades, they're here and hers to play with. She doesn't need them. She pushes their fingers down to slide just under the waistband of the jeans and darts their eyes in the mirror to where the girl still slumps unconscious on the bedframe, and the nerve-shudder as Dean tries to close their eyes and isn't able to—delicious. It really is. "You really were a good student," she says, softly, and feels the shame bloom up in their belly like a flower unfurling.

He remembers, too. He dreams about it. He's never spoken about it, to anyone, beyond brief allusions to turn Sam's beloved eyes away, and it's an intimacy snatched away that she has it, that every spatter of blood and every shattered soul, every scream and splintered wave-form and every light greyed down to misery—they know them, together, now. The person that he is is repulsed, ashamed, afraid of what might happen if he ever again had to walk down that road. The person that he was, though—

"It's never all that far away, is it," she says, his heart hammering frantically inside their chest. "The past. Always right there, if you know where to look."

The girl wakes up, behind them. She's barely clinging to life, but she's alive, and she whimpers deep in her chest before she starts to cry, soundlessly, sobs shaking her narrow chest. She's maybe twenty. Plain-faced, brown hair. They look at her in the mirror and watch her shudder and Dean's cock starts to thicken, in his jeans, blood surging under their skin. She meets his eyes.

This body, it's a weapon. Too bad he's been too ashamed to use it. She holds a memory of the rack close, a soul Dean peeled open and destroyed so professionally, so _tenderly_ , Alastair's pride shimmering over the false skin they wore in hell, and she thinks deliberately of hard metal and that girl's soft golden flesh, how parting it would be so very easy. The remembered pleasure-pain of Alastair fucking into him, into them both, the bright trembling joy of ravaging some other poor schmuck, the gleaming burn of forcing surrender, of the blood rising up and spilling over and loving it. She slides their hand down and feels their cock swell, straining, eyes flickering at the twinned pleasure as she watches their body in the mirror.

"I could do so many things," she says, in his voice, letting it go rough with arousal. "Filthy, delicious things, things you're terrified of, that you wish you were brave enough for. I could remind you of every single thing Alastair did to you, or that you wished he would do. I could take this body and rummage up inside it with a knife and make you come from it, Dean, I could make your body obey me entirely and make you cry and make you wish for more. I could take you across the room and find a razor and we can keep her alive, Dean, we know how, we can keep her alive for days and days until she's fucked bloody and dead and then I'll send my boys out to get more, fresh meat, a blank canvas to play on. You remember how fun that can be?"

The girl's shaking, on the bed, her face buried in the strapped-up stretch of her own arm. Dean's right up under the surface, trapped-rabbit still, staring through their eyes. She smiles. "Or," she says, squeezing at the weight of his balls, "you can tell me what I want to know. Give me Crowley, and the bunker's location, and I'll let you go."

She squeezes a little harder, the bolt of pain spiking up deep into their stomach, and Dean recoils—not so much at the pain, that's too easy, but at the promise she's making. The future they'll build together, if he doesn't comply. They're sharing the same air, her smoke irradiated through his every cell. He knows she's telling the truth.

"It's up to you, Dean," she says, and unbuckles his belt. She slides the leather out of the loops and wraps it around their hand, the buckle dangling and gleaming in the light, and slides their other hand down to cup the thickness of their cock, pleasure seeping up. Both will work on the girl.

Dean trembles, inside, caught. She smiles, wide, and leans forward to press their plush perfect lips against the mirror, sighing happily at what's to come. "Okay, sweetheart," she says, their breath fogging hot. She draws a little heart in the steam left behind, and turns around to look at the small shaking form of her leverage. She cracks the belt against their leg, the tongue of the buckle stinging even through the denim, and breathes out a long sigh as Dean bellows inside her. "Just you let me know when you decide," she says. "We'll see who ends up flinching first."

**Author's Note:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](http://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/174441854899/incursion)


End file.
